


the kids are in love again

by retts



Category: Les Misérables (2012)
Genre: Crack, Fluff, Grantaire lies and feels terrible about it, Humour, M/M, Modern AU, Pining, a naked enjolras upside, but there's an upside, coffee dates, modeljolras, oblivious idiots, posing in the nude
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-05-29
Updated: 2014-05-29
Packaged: 2018-01-21 16:01:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,456
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1556057
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/retts/pseuds/retts
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Grantaire bites down on his lower lip, trying not to smile. The idiot brought food and then still managed to insult him. ‘Apollo, as much as I appreciate your ardent desire to pose in the nude for me as well as having brought lunch to feed the poor starving artist, I really have to decline.’</p><p>There’s an even longer pause. <em>Ha! </em>Grantaire thinks again: <em>victory? </em>He should have gone with the nude thing first. Grantaire ignores the twinge of disappointment in his gut. <em>Naked Enjolras is nothing to get excited over</em>, Grantaire tells himself resolutely, <em>and there is no chance in fucking hell that he’ll ever agree to strip down to just his </em>skin<em> --</em></p><p>‘Yes, I’ll do it,’ Enjolras says at last, ‘I’ll pose in the nude for you. Now open the door.’</p><p>(Or the one where Grantaire doesn't exactly need a model but Enjolras doesn't know that and volunteers to do it. Then things happen. Good things. Sort of. Grantaire will get back to you on that one.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	the kids are in love again

**Author's Note:**

> So yeaaahhh this thing haha :)
> 
> i don't know how to do anything except write about things i don't know how to do haha
> 
> warnings for excessive show of emotions through eyebrow raising 
> 
> also i ramble on quite a bit in this one. excuse the long-ass sentences. thanks a bunch to **m** , who has to suffer through my winding sentences. any remaining mistakes are my fault.

 

The phone rings. Grantaire barely hears it but he feels the vibration under his cheek. Grunting, he digs under the cushions and brings it blindly to his ear. He doesn't miss, which means he isn't as drunk as he'd meant to be last night.

'What,' he mutters: the quintessential morning grouch with the threat of a sizable hangover lingering in the distance.

‘ _R_ , oh my God!'

‘...what?’

‘R! Oh my _God!_ ’

Grantaire opens one eye, squinting blearily against the weak sunlight streaming through the window directly opposite the sofa. Why the fuck is the sofa directly opposite the window, Grantaire wants to know. And why is he just noticing this now, after years in this bloody flat? First things first, though; he has to address the person choking on the other line: ‘This sounds like Courfeyrac, but the Courfeyrac I know would not wake up his dear friend at,’ another squint at the scratched up screen of his iPhone, ‘fucking 10 on a Saturday morning.’

Courfeyrac goes on making noises like he’s dying. 

‘Spit it out, Courf,’ snaps Grantaire.

‘That’s what she said,’ mutters Courfreyac, ‘but oh my God, R! Are you at your flat? You have to be. On second thought, maybe it’s better if you’re not there? If you are, I think you should barricade your front door. Whatever you do -- if you even have an ounce of self-preservation in you -- don’t answer. It might be a matter of life or death where you’re concerned.’

‘What are you talking about?’ Grantaire’s headache has grown from mild to knocking around his head with a hammer.

‘Enjolras!’ Courfeyrac shouts, which, first of all, ouch, Courfeyrac is the shrillest twat in all of twatdom and second of all, it’s too early in the morning to deal with anything concerning Enjolras.

Grantaire rolls over to his front, face buried into the cushions. He resists the urge to throw his mobile just because it might break and he doesn’t actually have money to buy a new one. ‘Please speak in complete sentences, Courf. I know you can do it, come on, boy.’

‘I’m not a dog; I’m a glamorous pussycat, thank you _very_ much. Ugh, anyway!’ He takes a deep, steadying breath but it sounds more like a death rattle over the god-awful connection. ‘Remember that time you made a flyer looking for a male model and wrote that you’d pay like, ten dollars per hour if they posed for you?’

Ah. That.

'Ah, that.'

'Yes,' Courfeyrac says meaningfully, ' _that_.'

The advert had been a joke, something about naked models and blowjobs. Grantaire had meant to take it off the university bulletin before someone actually needing the money takes it seriously. He'd been drunk when he'd made it, and drunk in the succeeding days after, so he'd more or less forgotten about its existence.

‘What does that have to do with our fearless lea -- _no_. No fucking way.’

‘Yeah, he’s on his way to yours as we speak.’ Shockingly, Courfeyrac gives a chuckle. He sounds fond. ‘It was kind of cute, really, how indignant he was when he found out that you were in need and you didn’t tell _him_ about it.’

Grantaire finds nothing funny about the situation. He springs to his feet, almost stumbles face-first into the plastic table directly in front of him, and starts to panic. ‘Enjolras’ determination -- delusion, more like, that self-righteous git -- to turn helping people into an Olympic sport is _not_ _cute_.’ Grantaire bites his lip, eyes glazing over. ‘Okay. Fine. Maybe it is a little cute, but only in a creepy kind of way. Not at all endearing and misguided like an untrained puppy. I mean, he gets all serious and shit, and that tiny little groove shows up between his eyebrows, and then he clenches his _jaw_ \-- but that’s _so_ not the point I’m trying to make! The fucking point is why didn’t you stop him, for fuck’s sake? Where was Combeferre in all of this? Where was the voice of reason?’

‘It happened before the first cup of coffee of the day,’ Courfeyrac defends.

‘Can’t he phone Enjolras and call him back? Say there’s an emergency!’

‘What would the emergency be?’

‘I don’t know; you’re the geniuses studying to be lawyers! I’m sure you can think of a good excuse.’

Courfeyrac makes a thoughtful sound. ‘We _are_ out of pancake flour. Combeferre, call Enjolras and tell him it’s International Pancake Day and we’re out of vital ingredients!’

There is a muffled reply from the other line. It sounds like, ‘That was the excuse we gave him last week when he was on his way to help Joly practise his IV insertions. It didn't work. Do you remember the crying, Courfeyrac?’

‘I can’t _not_ remember it, because it was Joly crying and Enjolras trying to be nice about it and Bossuet coming home and then crying because Joly was still in tears and we all had to go round their place for ice cream and a snugglefest -- God, Combeferre, I bet you anything that Grantaire’s going to fucking weep when Enjolras allows him to stare at his golden visage for hours without interruption!’

‘Grantaire is still on the other line, fucker,’ Grantaire points out.

Distantly, he can hear Combeferre say, ‘We still have a tub of Ben & Jerry’s in the freezer.’

‘Wouldn’t Enjolras wonder why we're suddenly barging in with another snugglefest, though? I think he’ll start noticing that it tends to happen when he’s trying to be helpful. Even Enjolras isn’t that thick, especially with R sobbing gratefully as he clutches Enjolras' ankles.’

'Wow, thanks so much for preserving my dignity, Courfeyrac, really. I feel so loved,' says Grantaire, tone dry as a desert.

‘Hm, you’re right about that,' Combeferre says, obviously ignoring Grantaire. And to think Combeferre is the one they all turn to for a bit of sanity. Grantaire is so disappointed in him.  

Courfeyrac, on the other hand, makes a delighted noise. ‘Words I so rarely hear from your lips! Quick, let me record this for posterity!’

‘God, you two are absolutely no help at all.’ He hangs up and rakes a hand through his unruly hair. Grantaire makes a decision: he’ll escape. He still has credits in his metro card; he can ride the train to the end of the line and back, just until Enjolras finds another pet project to focus on. Resolute on a plan of action, Grantaire goes about packing an emergency bag. Grantaire tugs on an old jumper and a pair of jeans over his boxers. He grabs his sketchbook and a few pencils and stuffs them in his ratty rucksack. He finds his trainers in his bedroom under a discarded pair of pants. He’s hopping on one leg as he tries to get the left shoe on, rucksack bouncing on his back and perilously close to slipping down his shoulder, when there’s a knock on his door.

Suddenly Grantaire is overcome with terror. Why doesn’t his building come with a bloody intercom? Why is he even friends with Enjolras in the first place?

This is all Bahorel’s fault.

See, the thing is, no matter how hard Grantaire tries, it’s impossible to make Enjolras less attractive by the power of his thoughts. All that rot about the law of attraction and positive thinking is exactly that: nonsense. 

Because Grantaire has seen Enjolras in the morning still looking unfairly beautiful after a rare wild night out with nothing but shadows under his eyes and jaw and mussed hair to show for it. He’s seen Enjolras sweaty and bruised after a rally gone wrong (and beaming and radiant when it goes right). He’s seen Enjolras becoming unhinged during finals week. He’s seen Enjolras without coffee, for God’s sake. Nobody should ever make sanctimonious preaching attractive but Enjolras somehow manages it; with the fierce look in his eyes, the resounding cadence of his voice, and the agitated punctuations of his hands. Even then ( _even then),_ Grantaire thinks he's perfect. 

It’s a challenge to draw Enjolras not just because the bastard can’t stay still for a few minutes, but because he is so dazzling and beautiful a figure that Grantaire can’t keep his eyes off of him long enough to actually try and capture all of that uncompromising morality in ink, charcoal, or paint.

He has devoted pages and pages to studying Enjolras in the hopes that maybe, if Grantaire can draw him well enough, he’ll be closer to understanding how the man can actually believe the bullshit coming out of his mouth. Grantaire knows he isn’t wrong but Enjolras continues to look at him as if Grantaire’s world view is the one that’s skewed and laughable. There’s no middle ground between them when it comes to this, so they bark and bite and spar. And yet Grantaire believes that if Enjolras is anything less than himself then he would not be as captivating.

And the more Grantaire studies the man in his sketchbook and the man in the flesh, both fired up with hopeless passion for revolutionising the world into a better place, the more he wants to smack Enjolras on the back of his head and then ruffle his hair.

Enjolras is unshakeable and Grantaire is the exact opposite. 

Is it any wonder that he went and fell in love?

The knock comes again; followed by a surly ‘Grantaire!’ that makes Grantaire think that Enjolras really should sound more cheerful since he’s the one with the overwhelming desire to help everyone in need. Or maybe that's just his default mode when it comes to dealing with Grantaire.

‘No one’s home!’ Grantaire yells in panic. That -- might not have been his brightest moment.

Enjolras’ scoff can be heard a continent over. ‘Open the door, Grantaire.’

‘Go away, Apollo!’ Grantaire says when he finds his voice. He's calculating the distance from the front door to the fire escape. ‘Your presence is severely unwanted at the moment. Actually, scratch that, it is always unwanted!’

‘You’re looking for a model, right?’ Enjolras says, and God, are they really going to have this conversation on opposite sides of the door? ‘I’m volunteering. (Yes, they really are going to have this conversation on opposite sides of the door with their voices loud enough to be heard by everyone). You don’t even have to pay me, although it wouldn’t be beyond you to feed me a little.’

‘I have neither food nor money! I am but a poor wretch unworthy of your munificence!’

There’s a pause. _Ha,_ Grantaire thinks: _victory!_

‘I bought takeaway since I guessed that you would have nothing but alcohol in your flat.’

Grantaire bites down on his lower lip, trying not to smile. The idiot brought food and then still managed to insult him. ‘Apollo, as much as I appreciate your ardent desire to pose in the nude for me as well as having brought lunch to feed the poor starving artist, I really have to decline.’

There’s an even longer pause. _Ha!_ Grantaire thinks again: _victory?_ He should have gone with the nude thing first. Grantaire ignores the twinge of disappointment in his gut. _Naked Enjolras is nothing to get excited over_ , Grantaire tells himself resolutely, _and there is no chance in fucking hell that he’ll ever agree to strip down to just his_ skin _\--_

‘Yes, I’ll do it,’ Enjolras says at last, ‘I’ll pose in the nude for you. Now open the door.’

Words that Grantaire wants on his tombstone. He blinks and automatically undoes the lock, pulling the door open to reveal Enjolras with a paper bag tucked in one elbow (recyclable, of course), a fine eyebrow raised high, and carrying a cup of coffee in each hand. ‘Munificence? Really?’ he asks doubtfully.

‘My vocabulary is still fabulous even after a night of merry debauchery,’ says Grantaire, leaning against the door jamb and preventing entrance to crazy blond activists. ‘Impressed yet?'

‘Deeply,’ Enjolras says flatly. ‘May I come in?’

‘So polite; it’s like we’ve never had a screaming match before!’ Grantaire hesitates before he steps aside to let the other man in. He has to pry his fingers from the doorknob. He carelessly drops his unzipped rucksack to the floor.

Enjolras makes a sound in the back of his throat and places the paper bag on the coffee table. His messenger bag is set down on the sofa. He hands Grantaire a cup, which he takes with a show of exaggerated astonishment. Enjolras rolls his eyes. 

It’s always surreal to have Enjolras in an entirely Grantaire space; that is, crowded, colourfully splattered with paint, and all kinds of haphazard. There’re half empty cans of paint tucked into a corner on top of a bunch of old newspapers. Canvases of varying sizes are propped against every available surface. Footprints in luminescent blue paint snake all the way from Grantaire’s bedroom to the kitchen after one night of vodka-inspired sleepwalking, becoming a permanent fixture when Grantaire couldn’t be bothered to scrub them off the next day. The stretch of wall behind the sofa has been turned into a mural, painted and repainted countless times in the years that Grantaire has lived in the flat. Enjolras now turns towards it, examining the half-finished fairy tale woodland.

‘It’s coming along,’ says Enjolras, tone neutral. ‘The last time I was here that was a beach.’

‘Couldn’t get the fucking light on the water right,’ Grantaire says. He shakes off the exposed feeling he gets whenever someone (but especially Enjolras) studies any of his work. ‘Listen, Apollo, there’s been a slight mis -- ’

That’s when Enjolras takes off his shirt.

Grantaire gags on air like it’s an actual choking hazard. ‘What are you doing?’ he asks, voice going embarrassingly high at the end. He puts the coffee on the table before he accidentally douses himself with it. It’s not the first time he’s seen Enjolras shirtless (The Wet T-shirt Day of ‘12 will forever be one of his favourites), nor is it even the second or third time (equally marked in Grantaire’s mental calendar with smiley faces and exclamation points). Still, it’s like getting punched in the gut with a fist. A fist of desire. Physically, Enjolras is long, lithe, and deadly. Grantaire’s traitorous eyes take in the golden pale skin, the toned arms, wide shoulders tapering to a narrow waist. No one with a mind like his who is able to wield words like a samurai sword should look like he does because then what is left for the rest of them?

Enjolras brushes his curls back from his face before he drapes his shirt on the back of the sofa. ‘This is supposed to be an unclothed piece, isn’t it?’ His hands go to his belt.

‘Wait, stop!’ Grantaire has a hand pressed over his eyes but he’s never been a good kid, so he peeks from between fingers.

‘What?’ Enjolras cocks his head, frowning. Blue (blue, so fucking blue) eyes peer at him closely. ‘Are you _embarrassed_ , Grantaire?’

Grantaire laughs a little hysterically. ‘Yeah, let’s go with that.’

Enjolras crosses his arms and glares sternly at Grantaire. ‘You should have told me you needed someone to model for you, especially since I know you really can’t afford to pay anyone, though God knows how you finance your drinking habits.’

‘Wow, thanks.’ Grantaire rolls his eyes. Having Enjolras naked -- well, shirtless -- isn’t worth the insults that seem to come naturally to the man every sentence or two. (It’s a lie, obviously, because Grantaire is still peeking.)

Enjolras waves a hand at him. ‘Didn’t any of the others offer to do it? It doesn’t matter since I’m here now. And you shouldn’t just give away your mobile number and address, you know. There are plenty of crazy bastards out there.’

‘Since you're clearly a paragon of sanity. You.’

Enjolras shoots him a dirty look, which, coupled with his near-nakedness, makes Grantaire sweat a little.

Grantaire picks up the giant sketchpad before he does something he’ll regret, like fondle Enjolras’ biceps and pur. He might _like_ yanking on the other man’s blond pigtails but he doesn’t actually want to die. Sexual harassment is the kind of thing that Enjolras severely frowns upon.

Toting his sketchpad is apparently the wrong thing to do because Enjolras takes it as a sign to continue stripping. Grantaire blinks the fuzzy spots in his eyes away and quickly tells Enjolras that the jeans can stay.

‘Are you sure?’ Enjolras asks, eyebrows furrowed as if to say, _if you want to see the crown jewels, you don’t need to buy a ticket and wait in a queue. For you, it’s free._

Yeah, no.

Grantaire swallows, tears his gaze away from the unbuttoned jeans, the belt hanging open. ‘Yeah, yeah, yeah.’ He clears his throat. ‘Just. We can work our way there.’

Enjolras gives a nod and turns away, and Grantaire smacks himself on the forehead. Why the hell did he say that for? Work their way to a completely bare ass naked Enjolras? God, the imaginary psychiatrist he keeps for emergencies is right: he _is_ a glutton for punishment. 

‘Where do you want me?’ Enjolras asks, looking over his shoulder at him. The sun lovingly outlines him in its gentle warm glow, highlighting the gold in his hair.

Grantaire blinks repeatedly a few times. He licks his lips. There aren’t enough dirty thoughts in the world.

‘R?’

‘Yeah. Sure. Uh, by the window’s good. All the -- all that natural light.’

Enjolras positions himself on the seat below the window. He pushes out the panes to let the breeze in and then runs his fingers through his hair, making a face at the knotted ends. He catches Grantaire’s gaze and gives him a small smile. ‘Mind if I do some work, or will that make things difficult for you?’

‘No, it’s fine. I’m just doing figure sketches for now.’ Grantaire swallows and busies himself with fetching his art kit. He crouches down on the floor and looks under the sofa, and lets out a soft ‘Aha’ as he reaches for the pencils right beside Feuilly’s missing cleats that he’s been searching for.  

‘So, is this a project for a class of yours?’ Enjolras asks curiously as he gracefully lounges on the seat.

Grantaire thinks this is the best opportunity to tell him the truth. He can just go, ‘Actually, the whole needing a model thing isn’t true but I honestly appreciate your willingness to give someone so young heart problems, so if you still want to sit there without a shirt on whilst I draw you (and maybe ogle you a bit) then that’s absolutely fine with me.’

Instead what he says is, ‘Yeah, um. Naked drawing, it’s a thing, you know. For class. Tasteful versus provocative versus pornography, that sort of thing.’

‘Surprised you didn’t go for the last one,’ remarks Enjolras.

‘Give me some credit, please. That’ll come later.’ He leers at Enjolras, who sighs.

Grantaire goes to set up his drawing board on the easel, trying to decide on the best angle to start with. He might as well go all out. Who knows when he’ll have another chance to do this again, if ever?

Meanwhile, Enjolras makes small talk. It’s not unusual, though it doesn’t happen that often between them. Usually Enjolras is expounding on the possibilities of a better future and Grantaire making sarcastic remarks when they’re together. They don’t go at it as much if they’re in a purely social situation, surrounded by friends. That first year after becoming acquainted was the worst, with an Enjolras who barely noticed his existence until Grantaire was openly challenging him. Back then, most of their debates tended to turn hostile unless their friends intervened. Prolonged exposure to each other’s presence have mellowed them out, though. Enjolras still snaps whenever Grantaire makes a disparaging remark, still pokes his nose into Grantaire’s habits, his vices, and Grantaire still listens to Enjolras with a cynic’s ear. But they’re something like friends now, Grantaire supposes, or else this entire situation would seem like a weird acid trip.

‘I _am_ surprised you decided to do this,’ Grantaire tells him, doing a few practice lines. His eyes look at Enjolras over the top of the drawing board. ‘You know, even with your irrational volunteerism. If I‘d known you were so keen to get naked for me, I’d have asked you sooner.’

Enjolras turns a page on his book. ‘I know I’m not exactly model material -- ’

Grantaire holds in a laugh as he stares at the stunning picture Enjolras makes before him, because he’s definitely laughing _at_ the other man and Enjolras hates feeling like he’s being made a fool.

‘ -- but I know you’ve been picking up extra shifts at the bar, and you’ve been sort of down lately, and I thought,’ Enjolras fleetingly captures his gaze before looking away, shoulders moving in a shrug, ‘well, if I could help you with this, then you wouldn’t have to pay some stranger or invite said stranger into your flat in the first place.’

Grantaire stares wonderingly at him. ‘You know I’m taking extra shifts?’

Enjolras pins him with a stare that’s on the verge of being personally offended. He takes his causes personally, Enjolras does, but it’s different when it is, in fact, personal based on the dictionary definition of the word. ‘I do pay attention, you know. A few days ago you got your hair cut. Courfeyrac tore his favourite pair of jeans because he was trying to climb a tree to spy on his latest person of interest. Jehan got his poem published in the local paper.’

A flush is trying to make its way to Grantaire’s cheeks, and his belly feels like it is being clawed apart by killer butterflies. ‘Uh, Courfeyrac and Jehan are your friends. And person of interest, really? We normal people say “crush”.’

‘And you’re not my friend?’ Enjolras counters, annoyance creeping into his tone. ‘We’ve known each other for nearly two years and you drive me -- I think the medical term Joly uses is batshit insane. But you’re not an unlikeable guy, Grantaire.’

‘What a ringing endorsement from Enjolras himself,’ Grantaire says, unable to stop the teasing lilt of his voice, and grins at the other man when an affronted look steals over his face. ‘Thank you,’ he adds much more sincerely, because the warm and heavy blooming in his chest refuses to go unacknowledged.

He can count Enjolras’ kindness towards him in his two hands and keeps them tucked away safely in the back of his mind, for selective perusal whenever he’s feeling particularly maudlin. Today, though, is a good day. The light kisses Enjolras’ form and Grantaire has to calm his wildly beating heart before he can do anything else.

Enjolras’ eyes soften and he settles in his pose once more, gaze falling to his book. As he turns a page, he says, ‘And person of interest is a perfectly valid way of describing it, thanks.’

Grantaire laughs as he roots through his supplies to find the right pencil. Typical Enjolras: he has to have the last word. Grantaire’s fingers brush against his cell phone and after a quick glance at Enjolras, he sends a few messages.

 

**To Courf:**

He’s at mine and he’s posing for me IT’S NOT A BIG DEAL

 

**To Courf:**

No need for ice cream

 

**To Courf:**

Though snugglefest is still optional bec one can never have 2 much snuggling

 

**To Courf:**

Also never ever bring this up in public EVER

 

**To Courf:**

If you do just remember I know where you live

 

**To Courf:**

No one but especially not E can know it’s all a JOKE

 

**To Courf:**

Add Combeferre to that

 

**To Courf:**

OH MY GOD I’m LYING to ENJOLRAS I what where is the nearest stop I’d like to get off this planet

 

**To Courf:**

Don’t judge me I’m a flawed man 

 

Then he turns off his phone, grabs what he needs, and goes to work.

(Hours later, he will read: 

 

**From Courf:**

OMGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGG :D )

 

 

 

 

 

So, it really is all Bahorel’s fault. He’s the one who meets Marius on the treadmill next to his in the same gym they happen to go to, strikes up a conversation with him, likes his face, and decides that Eponine needs to know him as well. Then it becomes Eponine’s fault because she concludes that Marius is “the one” and sneakily inserts herself into his social circle. Around this time Grantaire is still working in the soul-sucking job of photocopying files and bringing highly-strung employees their tea. He’s been hearing about Marius for the past fortnight. Eponine isn’t the type to come right out and talk about the warm fuzzies she feels whenever she is staring soulfully into some guy's eyes but Grantaire is all about the subtext and what he gets from Eponine’s cool as a cucumber ‘Marius? He’s taking French and English Literature so he can’t hold a conversation without the obligatory “Mr Daaaaarcy!” but whatever, he’s cool’ -- what he gets is that Eponine is secretly drawing hearts all over Marius’ name. Like any self-respecting best friend, he demands that he meet this Marius fellow and roughen him up a bit.

‘No,’ Eponine says, and punches him in the gut when he pesters her all night about it.

This is when Grantaire realises that Eponine is _serious_ because she usually could care less if he meets her boyfriends. Grantaire does the next best thing: he goes to the source of all this romance malarkey.

‘So where can I find this Marius?’ Grantaire asks after they get their drinks at their favourite pub.

Bahorel puts down his bottle. ‘Is this why you asked me out tonight, for reconnaissance work?’

Grantaire grins and taps their bottles together. ‘Yes, and you’re paying, by the way, ta. Now on to business, what’s up with this Marius?’

It turns out that Bahorel has been waiting tables in a cafe not too far from his usual gym, and that he is newly part of a little Justice League club that regularly meets there. Marius (again) is the one who tells him about the job opening, and the one who introduces Bahorel to the group.

‘You, a defender of justice?’ Grantaire snorts, highly amused. ‘Do you wear tights too? Do you have a bat signal?’

‘Shut up or I’ll punch your fucking mouth in,’ Bahorel says dangerously.

The woman next to them squeaks and hastily flees the bar, and Grantaire and Bahorel burst out laughing. They fist bump.

‘Dude, seriously, are you playing these kids?’ Grantaire wants to know.

‘Like you’re so mature yourself, you cunt.’ Bahorel knocks the bottom of his beer bottle against Grantaire’s shoulder. ‘It’s actually not what you think it is. They do stuff on a big scale like staging rallies and protests and signature campaigns, affiliating with non-profit organizations and the like, but they help people on a more personal scale, too, by volunteering in soup kitchens and housing projects. It’s pretty cool, actually. We’ll be doing an awareness campaign for LGBT issues next month.’ 

Grantaire snorts and takes a pull of his beer. ‘It’s _exactly_ how I pictured it.’

A wide grin crosses Bahorel’s face and he points at Grantaire. ‘Why don’t you come and listen to the lot? Maybe it’ll do your hairy heart a bit of good. There’s a meeting tomorrow and Marius will be there.’

‘And we’ll hold hands and sing _kumbaya_ with a bunch of hippies?’ Grantaire makes a face. ‘But I will make an appearance only to meet this Marius kid, see why Eponine’s so wild about him.’

‘I’ll introduce you to Enjolras,’ says Bahorel a little gleefully, eyes lighting up.

‘Is he the fearless leader of your rebel army?’

‘Something like that. Kind of evangelistic but his heart’s in the right place. He’s rather amazing, actually. You’ll love him.’

‘Doubtful, but whatever.’ Grantaire shrugs and waves his hand to catch the bartender’s attention.

They drink for another hour until Bahorel begs off because he has an early class tomorrow, leaving Grantaire to help close up the bar a few hours later. He isn’t part of the staff but details. The next day he’s hungover and still sleepy despite waking up at 1 pm, so it’s easy to say fuck it to his one class of the day. As long as he turns up with something good next time, he won’t be in too much trouble. He lights up a cigarette and makes himself a greasy breakfast-late lunch combo. While consuming large amounts of bacon, he receives a text from Eponine.

 

**From Eponine:**

Meeting starts at 4:30

 

**From Grantaire:**

Don’t fucking embarrass me

 

**From Eponine:**

Or I am going to slay your ass

 

**From Grantaire:**

But it’s such a pretty ass!

 

**From Eponine:**

Don’t care. Bahorel’s dead for even telling you about Musain

 

**From Grantaire:**

Priorities E! What if this Marius turns out be a psycho

 

**From Grantaire:**

In superhero tights XD

 

**From Eponine:**

Shut up and just get here

 

**From Grantaire:**

...don’t tell me they got to you too!

 

**From Grantaire:**

Why doesn’t anybody tell me things now?? :(

 

**From Eponine:**

Bec you don’t care, you’re a douchewozzle

 

**From Grantaire:**

Thanks for reminding me. I’ll be there and tell Marius I can’t WAIT to meet him

 

**From Eponine:**

Guess what finger I’m using to type this message

 

Properly intrigue, Grantaire takes a shower and makes good time towards the Musain. He arrives and narrows his eyes at the quaint windows and brick wall and the bell above the front doors, which chimes to announce his presence. Inside it’s appropriately hipster-esque, from the music playing from the speakers to the massive blackboard menu behind the counter, to the collection of vinyl and worn books on a stack in the corner. It’s not exactly the sort of venue Grantaire imagined as he listened to Bahorel talk about the social justice group he’s found himself in (honestly he was expecting a proper Bat Cave). He orders a chai latte and holy shit is it criminally cheap, not to mention everything on the menu is fresh and organic and  _delicious_. It’s like robbing the cafe blind. Grantaire would feel guilty if he isn't already addicted. If Grantaire had known this magical place existed, he would have gone thirty minutes out of his way to school so he can inhale the perfect drink in his hands. The last traces of his hangover vanish. 

‘Thanks,’ the owner behind the till says, her smile radiant. ‘I’ve never seen you round these parts before.’

‘Do you usually keep track of your customers?’ asks Grantaire, grinning. ‘Because that’s creepy but also quality customer service. I bet your customers are all over themselves to come back here.’

She -- Musichetta, he later learns -- gives him a free mint biscuit. ‘I like you.’

Grantaire bites into the biscuit. ‘Wow, I don’t play for your team, but for the coffee and dessert? I’m on the turn.’

Her laughter is interrupted by the shouted, ‘R!’ that makes Grantaire look over his shoulder. ‘There she is,’ he beams, beckoning her over with a wave of his coffee cup. ‘Eponine, my love. I thought your gang of virtuous university boys meet here? But everyone looks pretty normal and non-crime fighting from where I’m stood.’

‘It’s above the cafe, you idiot,’ Eponine says and then turns to Musichetta. ‘Sorry about him, he’s not fit for company.’

‘He’s perfectly charming,’ Musichetta says, endearing her to Grantaire forever. ‘I’m sure he’ll be a good fit for the _Amis_.’

‘They call themselves that?’ Grantaire snorts. ‘Good luck anyone taking them seriously.’

Eponine gives a shark-like grin. ‘Yeah, you ought to come up, ‘Chetta. I’m gonna sic him on Enjolras.’

Laughing, Musichetta promises she’ll stop by. Eponine steers Grantaire out of the cafe and into a side street with a flight of old stone steps leading up to the room upstairs. Grantaire demands, ‘What _is_ up with this Enjolras bloke anyway?’

What is up with Enjolras is that he’s a Greek god. Grantaire isn’t even being hyperbolic. The person standing up front, surrounded by a rapt audience, cannot be real. His hair is a gleaming halo even in the fading sunlight and his face is an artist’s (wet) dream: delicate jaw, cheekbones that could cut diamonds, straight nose, flawless rosy skin. But his eyes, Grantaire decides as he steps closer, unable to help himself, are his best feature. They are big and blue and absolutely _fierce_ as he talks, hands moving in agitated counterpoint to his rhythmic voice.

‘His name’s En-jol-ras,’ whispers Eponine into his ear, drawing out the name so that Grantaire ‘won’t mispronounce it when you scream it in bed

‘Enjolras,’ says Grantaire dreamily, fingers itching for his pencil.

He and Eponine find a seat by the door, far away that they won’t disturb everyone else but near enough that Grantaire has an unobstructed view of his Adonis. No, definitely Apollo, because Adonis is soft and weak, nothing at all like this man with the soaring lilt in his voice. He could read the phonebook and Grantaire would be stimulated, although --

‘What is he talking about?’ Grantaire asks, refocusing on his sense of hearing, instead of his sight.

‘The bill will be decided soon, which gives us roughly two months to counter-attack. We all know that the bill will only hurt the people more instead of fixing the problem. Senator Lamarque is opposed to this, of course, and we back him up completely. The main plan of action is to let the public know that this _isn’t_ the solution. Last week’s survey showed that nearly fifty percent didn’t know what the bill was about, and to assume that they don’t _care_ is unfair, so we start there: we give the public correct and relevant information so they can make an informed choice.’

‘We have the LGBT campaign in a few weeks,’ says the guy near the front, seated on a stool. ‘It will be tough juggling two activities so close together.’

‘Tough, yes, but doable,’ says Enjolras. ‘It would mean many more late, even sleepless nights. If everyone pitches in then it’s not impossible. Jehan?’

As the guy with long hair in braids and a flower tucked behind his ear talks about logistics and funding, Grantaire turns to Eponine with a disbelieving look.

Eponine smiles innocently at him.

‘They’re actually serious? Like, they really do this in their _free_ time?’

‘Don’t be an idiot,’ Eponine tells him, ‘we do this even during class too. It’s a never-ending extracurricular activity, only the points you get can only be used by your soul.’

‘We,’ Grantaire says flatly. ‘You’ve only been here for a week, Ep.’

‘I’m all about saving the world, R.’

Before Grantaire can respond, he hears Enjolras’ perfect voice announce, ‘That’s a good point, Marius. Staying in a focus-group could be a disadvantage. We should spread the message as wide as possible.’ The rest of the room bursts into discourse.

Grantaire’s head whips around just in time to see Enjolras nod at a gangly, freckly, dark-haired man in the left corner. He slants a look at Eponine, who is busily examining her cuticles. ‘And he’s your guiding light, yeah?’

She brushes her fringe away with her middle finger. Grantaire is distracted when Enjolras speaks again, commanding the attention of everyone in the room. It would be fucking cool if Enjolras isn’t going on about whatever it is he’s talking about. Grantaire has always been a cynic, from the day his mother walked out of his life because she found a richer man when he was a kid and he’d only seen more hurt the older he got. No matter how much information you spread, how many rallies you organise, how long your list of signatures go, the world will still be a fucked up place where children cry in the dark and rich people control everything.

And listening to Enjolras’ rhetoric, bright, passionate and full of belief, and watching all of those things manifest in his expression, Grantaire can’t help but lower his latte and say, ‘Yeah, but is any of that really going to make a difference?’

It’s a bit disconcerting when every head in the room turns in his direction, including Enjolras’ golden one. Eponine kicks him under the table but Grantaire is spurred on by the frown Enjolras aims at him. ‘It’s great, it’s super, really, that you’re so dedicated to saving the world, but the world is beyond hope. In the end, corruption in the government still exists; the poor are still poor and people will only stop to listen for as long as their next appointment doesn’t start. So basically: what’s the point?’

‘The point is,’ Enjolras starts, eyes intent on Grantaire in a way that makes him tingle even when the blue is bright with disapproval, ‘to _try_. What if one, even just one, of those people stopping in the crowd listens to you, and their heart is touched, and their mind is lit with possibilities, and they go on to spread the word, or do _something_ that will help the cause. We hope to reach hundreds, thousands of people, but you can never underestimate the good work even just a single person’s changed view can accomplish.’

‘Pretty words, but it’s not like we all can just drop everything and fight the system. Sure, we’re transformed, we go and fight the system, but what happens after we go against that inevitable wall we call _reality?_ Nothing, that's what. Wake up, man; the world sucks and there isn’t anything you can do to change that.’

Enjolras all but vibrates with anger. ‘What’s your name?’ he demands.

‘Grantaire, at your service,’ he drawls, lips pulling in a mocking grin.

‘Grantaire,’ Enjolras says without any hesitation, ‘what are you doing here? If you don’t believe in effecting change, then why bother showing up in the first place? You say you’re at our service, but all you can do is perpetuate a lazy, mocking world view that will only hinder our purpose. We don’t have time for cynics like you.’

‘I was hoping you’d be able to _change_ my mind,’ says Grantaire cheerfully, ‘but nope, all I hear are the same platitudes that come from our great and honest political leaders of today.’

‘Oh wow, I think he just compared Enjolras to a corrupt politician,’ someone whispers excitedly. It sounds a lot like Bahorel.

Instead of turning red like most people, Enjolras’ face smoothes out like marble. It’s a cold look that makes even Grantaire shiver. Whatever Enjolras is about to say is interrupted by a hand on his shoulder, connected to a bespectacled man trying not to appear amused.

‘Enjolras, thrilling as this may be, let’s get back to the topic at hand, shall we?’ he urges firmly.

‘Aw but Combeferre, it was just getting good!’ the guy on the stool protests. A lot of voices pitch in their agreement. They are all silenced by Enjolras’ glare.

Enjolras clears his throat and claps his hands. ‘Combeferre’s right. We have more important matters to speak of.’ Without a glance back at Grantaire, he’s off again.

Grantaire leans back in his seat, feeling both annoyed and delighted. Eponine leans close and smacks him on the arm. ‘What the hell was that?’ she hisses.

‘That was me voicing an opinion,’ Grantaire says.

‘Since when does that happen?’

‘I always have an opinion, Ep.’

‘But they’re always without conviction. Oh my God, you like him, don’t you? Don’t answer; it’s so obvious that you’re pulling on his pigtails. And I’ve seen him with literal pigtails. Jehan does them and Enjolras can’t say no to Jehan.’

Grantaire smirks at her. ‘I thought you wanted to _sic_ me on him?’ _Yes, please._

‘Annoy him, sure, but not to actually publicly face off with him. It must be true love.’

‘Shut up, your lover boy is staring at you.’

‘He’s staring because you’re such an arse and from now on I’m going to pretend that I don’t know you.’

Grantaire’s eyes track Enjolras’ movements. ‘So that’s Enjolras, huh?’

 

 

 

 

They stop a little after noon when Grantaire’s stomach reminds him that all he’s had in the last twelve hours are beer and half a cup of coffee. It’s even a miracle that he’s standing on his two feet with nothing more than a slight twinge in the back of his head; such is the power of Enjolras’ abs. Grantaire spends a moment running a critical eye over the work he’s done but it’s turned out decent for only a few hours work. It’s good. 

‘It’s good,’ Enjolras echoes, coming to stand beside Grantaire and staring at his own shirtless self on paper. He sucks on his lower lip before he turns to Grantaire with a small smile.

Grantaire’s heart cheers. ‘The model’s better,’ he quips with an exaggerated wink lest he does something unwise like profess his undying love to Enjolras. It’s surprising how often that happens (but especially when Enjolras is making a speech and Grantaire derails it with a rebuttal and they fall into an argument because Enjolras is at his most _alive_ when he’s defending his beliefs). He busies himself with unclipping the drawing paper and setting it safely away. The easel goes to a corner.

‘Want something to drink?’ Grantaire asks as he makes his way to the tiny kitchen.  

‘Yeah, thanks,’ comes the reply.

Grantaire takes a moment to compose himself by sticking his head into the freezer. He lets out a chilly exhale of frustration before he steps back, rubbing a hand over his cold face.

Enjolras is shouldering his way back into his shirt like it’s a battle when Grantaire comes back to the lounge with a can of beer for him and a glass of fruit juice for Enjolras. Grantaire silently mourns the loss of his view as he unpacks the lunch Enjolras bought them. It’s Chinese, which is exactly what Grantaire’s empty stomach needs, and he moans when he shovels a piece of sweet and sour pork into his mouth.

‘You should have said something if you were so hungry,’ Enjolras chastises, settling down next to Grantaire on the sofa.

‘I wasn’t, not really,’ says Grantaire around another mouthful. He ignores the critical look Enjolras gives his beer as he takes a satisfying pull. ‘Besides, you were already halfway out of your clothes; I couldn’t exactly toss you out of my flat. I’m not that kind of guy, not on a first date.’ 

Rolling his eyes, Enjolras takes one of the takeaway containers and opens it up. Grantaire leans towards him eagerly and peers inside. ‘Ooh, dumplings, delicious,’ and digs his chopsticks into Enjolras’ box.

An exasperated look crosses Enjolras’ face but he doesn’t bat Grantaire away. ‘You have your own food, you know. I’m sure there’s enough for like, four people, knowing your empty pit of a stomach.’

‘But yours seems pretty good too. Why Enjolras, are you refusing to _share_ your food?’

‘Food I bought, you mean?’

‘Details.’ Grantaire gestures aimlessly with his chopsticks. ‘Anyway, do you have someplace else to be later? I’m pretty much done with the initial sketch.’

‘No, I rescheduled everything for today. I thought it’d take longer than this, to be honest. Although if _you_ have another appointment then I’ll go after we’ve eaten. I did come here without warning, but I assumed that whatever project you required a model for was time-sensitive so I came as soon as I saw the poster.’

Grantaire picks his jaw up from the floor but it’s difficult; his shock is a heavy thing.

‘What?’

Enjolras pulls his chopsticks apart with an audible snap. ‘What’s what?’

‘You freed up your day for me?’

Enjolras looks at Grantaire like he’s stupid. ‘I just said so, didn’t I?’

‘Yes, but I thought I misheard,’ Grantaire says faintly. He gives himself a little shake, still pretty fucking disbelieving. ‘How _did_ you see the advert anyway? It was posted in the art department, which is out of your usual way. I’d ask why you were in university on a Saturday in the first place but I’d just get that look -- there it is.’

‘What look?’ Enjolras demands even as he levels Grantaire with it.

‘That one, the one we call the Stare of I Don’t Tolerate Stupidity-ness.’

‘That’s not a thing,’ Enjolras protests. He side-eyes Grantaire’s container and after only a second’s pause, he pokes around in there with his own chopsticks. Grantaire grins helplessly and tries not to melt on the spot.

‘Joly can never know we shared food,’ Enjolras warns him after he’s chewed and swallowed.

‘No worries, I don’t fancy having to listen to another of his lectures after sharing that shot glass with Courfeyrac. It was one time, okay. It happened _once_.’

A smile tugs at the corners of Enjolras’ lips. ‘Was that when he pulled out the illustrations?’

‘Please don’t remind me,’ Grantaire groans as he falls back on the sofa. ‘I’m pretty sure the tequila sterilised the glass itself. I mean, it’s alcohol, right? People used to pour alcohol over wounds in the old days. There was no need for Joly to go that far.’

‘You reminded yourself, Grantaire, and I don’t think it quite works that way. I almost regret missing that party.’ Enjolras licks at his lips and by extension the chopsticks still resting against his mouth. Grantaire chokes and hastily grabs for his beer, taking a desperate swallow. Enjolras lifts a patronising eyebrow at him. ‘Please don't choke on me. I haven't executed the Heimlich Maneouver in ages.’

‘I’m fine, I’m fine,’ wheezes Grantaire. He clears his throat and ducks his head down, trying to banish the memory from his brain but it’s useless; the few short seconds loops back on itself continuously, Enjolras' tongue licking at his bottom lip like a fucking snake. ‘Anyway, you, uh,’ Grantaire tries to remember the thread of conversation, ‘you had to revise that night, yeah?’ _For midterms which no one does, ever; is it any wonder that I still ask myself if you’re real or not,_ Grantaire silently adds to himself. Out loud: ‘It won’t be the last party at Bahorel’s, trust me.’

‘Well, I might even go next time,’ says Enjolras casually. His eyebrows unknot and he lies back on the sofa, legs splayed out. His foot nearly touches Grantaire’s, and Grantaire crosses his legs.

‘Sure, _you’re_ going to come to the party,’ laughs Grantaire. He glances up from his food and grins. ‘Now you’re doing the I Don’t Have Time for Your Bullshit Glare.’

Enjolras narrows his eyes and point his sauce-dipped chopsticks at Grantaire accusingly. ‘You’re just making this up.’

‘I could make a spreadsheet if you want, I know you love those,’ Grantaire volunteers.

‘I can’t stand you,’ Enjolras tells him almost plaintively.

‘How you wound me, Apollo.’ Grantaire clutches at his chest.

‘Shut up and eat,’ Enjolras snaps but there’s no heat in his voice.  

There are a few minutes of companionable silence -- this day is surely one for the books -- until Grantaire realises that Enjolras never answered his question about the flyer. He asks it again as Enjolras checks his mobile.

‘It was at the Musain actually.’ Enjolras doesn't look at him, attention focused on his phone as his thumbs fly over the touch screen. His lips pull up in a displeased little moue before he tucks his smartphone away.

Grantaire looks at him in confusion. ‘I’m rather certain I left it at the art building. Who would move it to the Musain?’

‘It might have been one of the others,’ says Enjolras, but something resembling a troubled expression spreads on his face. Grantaire might be seeing things because he’s seen that look when things don’t go smoothly for one of Enjolras’ rallies; not for _him_. ‘They’re the only ones who would care to move it.’

‘No one said anything about that, though.’

‘I saw it yesterday afternoon but it wasn’t there on Wednesday when we had a meeting.’

Grantaire nods thoughtfully. ‘Weird, but you did pull it down, yeah?’

‘It’s in my folder.’ Enjolras gestures at his messenger bag. He puts his chopsticks inside his now-empty container and places it next to the others on the table. He takes a sip of his juice and clears his throat. ‘Unless you want other models, of course, then I could put it back up, although I suggest caution because as I said, you never know what kind of weirdo will show up here.’

‘God _no_ ,’ Grantaire says a little too empathetically because Enjolras raises an eyebrow at him. ‘Like you said, I don’t have enough money. I’m lucky you volunteered or I’d be forced to like, hire from an agency or uh, yeah.’ He catches Enjolras’ eye and added, ‘Also, you know, you’re already here. And. One weirdo of your calibre is enough for me.’

‘Happy to help,’ and the funny thing is Enjolras looks so fucking sincere. Grantaire has seen him literally help old ladies cross the street. This is just another way for Enjolras to give back to the people or whatever nonsense idea he has in that head of his; not because Grantaire is specifically special to him. Still, setting aside the fact that the entire needing-a-model thing is a farce, Grantaire is grateful.

Enjolras sweeps his gaze around the lounge and it eventually lands on the sketchpad peeking out from under old issues of Cosmo. ‘Do you mind if I -- ?’ He’s already reaching for the pad, his hand closing around it, when Grantaire realises with a sudden gasp of horror that it’s his special Enjolras notebook, the one with the red leather cover and Sailor Moon sticker right in the middle. No one ever sees that one; there’s a reason why he keeps it under his mattress. Why the hell is it out here where anyone can pick it up? Anyone named Enjolras who will see his own face, and other body parts, sketched out ad nauseam.

Panicking, Grantaire abruptly snatches it from Enjolras’ hand, making Enjolras gape at him in surprise.

‘You can’t!’ Grantaire all but yells at him, knuckles going white around the corners of the sketchpad. He wants to _die_.

‘...I can’t?’ Enjolras asks incredulously. It’s not that nobody ever tells Enjolras he can’t do something, which is always a guarantee that he will do whatever it is. Plenty of authoritative figures say _no_ to him but not his friends. Not Grantaire. His look of shock would be hilarious in any other situation.

Grantaire shakes his head wildly. ‘No one is! It’s private! Personal! Secret! Like, confidential, you know?’

Enjolras holds up a hand. ‘I got it when you said private, Grantaire,’ he reassures him.

Grantaire sucks in a breath and lets it out slowly. ‘Sorry, I overreacted.’

‘You did, quite a lot,’ says Enjolras unrepentantly. He’s still eyeing the sketchpad with unholy interest. He rubs his chin in a frighteningly thoughtful way, like he’s planning an intricately detailed scheme to steal the sketch pad when Grantaire’s not paying attention.

Grantaire scratches under his bristly jaw and then jerks his thumb over his shoulder. ‘Okay, I’ll just go and put this away. Whatever you’re planning, it’s not happening. This is private, Enjolras,’ he adds, playful, hoping it will diffuse the awkwardness between them. Well, it’s definitely just him who's feeling wrong-footed because Enjolras doesn’t do awkward. He stares awkward in the face until _it_ feels awkward.  

Paranoia lingers in Grantaire’s chest because that was too close for comfort. He flips to the first page once he's in the safet of his bedroom and blanches when he sees a detailed sketch of Enjolras’ face, glaring from underneath his overlong fringe. The next one is just of Enjolras’ forearm in various levels of tension and position. Grantaire has an excellent reason to feel paranoid. He hides it in his wardrobe this time, underneath his pants. No sane person would root through his underwear just to have a look through his Enjolras sketchpad, not even Courfeyrac (he hopes).

When he goes back out, Enjolras is tidying up.

‘Apollo, stop, I can handle that,’ says Grantaire hastily as he nudges Enjolras away.

Enjolras doesn’t budge. ‘Half of these are mine. I’ll help you wash up.’

‘Christ, someday that word is going to lose all meaning coming from your lips,’ mutters Grantaire as he lets Enjolras pick up the rest of the containers he can’t carry. Soon the lounge is spotless, or as spotless as it ever gets in his flat, and he’s showing Enjolras out of the door. Enjolras slips the strap of his bag over his head, fusses with it for a few moments, and then stares at Grantaire. It’s the kind of stare that makes it seem like he isn’t blinking at all and makes Grantaire either want to cower from it in fear or preen under the attention Enjolras is giving him.

Grantaire stares back. Soon enough, his eyes begin to water.

Enjolras sighs. ‘When should I return?’

‘Excuse me?’

Enjolras taps on the sketchbook Grantaire is holding. His knuckle brushes against Grantaire’s thumb. ‘To finish your project.’

This is another one of those moments where Grantaire can come out with the truth. It’ll be so much easier that way even if Enjolras will definitely yell at him and they go back to how things usually are, even regress a little to a time when Enjolras just kept shooting him hostile, suspicious glares. This is the longest time they’ve been in each other’s exclusive company without dissolving into an angry debate of some kind. It’s a world record and Grantaire wants more of it. He _likes_ knowing that Enjolras would rearrange his timetable for him too -- him: _Grantaire_ \-- even if it’s based on what is essentially a lie.  

Grantaire is so fucked.

He nods too quickly, making the room spin. He touches the side of his head and grimaces. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Enjolras shake his head at him, but the important part is the way Enjolras’ lips are pulled in a small smile. ‘Yeah, of course. That’s up to you, really, when you have the time. Uh, Tuesday? You get out early from your Philosophy class then.’ Grantaire shrugs. ‘Or whenever you’re available, Apollo, it’s up to you.’

Enjolras gives Grantaire a strange look. ‘You know my timetable?’

Grantaire adopts an innocent expression. ‘I know everyone’s timetable,’ he outright lies, praying that Enjolras won’t decide to quiz him on it. He has the vague idea that his friends all have classes, and that Eponine has Musical Theory on Thursdays but that’s it.

This time, the look on Enjolras’ face is considering, thoughtful. It makes Grantaire irrationally nervous. ‘I don’t have pressing matters to attend to on Tuesday,’ Enjolras says slowly, still watching Grantaire with that little furrow between his eyebrows. ‘I can come round by five.’

‘Great,’ says Grantaire, trying not to sound too excited. ‘We can start on a new pose.’

‘How many pieces do you need?’

‘Three in different medium: pencil, charcoal, and watercolour. Not my usual thing but that’s what the project is about.’ The lie is coming easily to Grantaire who had firmly believed that he’d be a wreck if he ever had to directly lie to Enjolras’ face (that bloody face) and it’s freaking him out. He adds, just to appease the pesky, chiding voice in his head that _shouldn’t_ sound like Enjolras (and shouldn’t even exist at all), ‘I don’t actually have to have you completely naked, Apollo, or any variation thereof. It’s all about the mood.’

Enjolras lifts one shoulder in an indifferent shrug. ‘I have no qualms about posing naked for you.’

Another line Grantaire wants on his tombstone. His tombstone will read like a quotation list of all the things Enjolras says that Grantaire personally finds meaningful, none of that saving the world rubbish. Grantaire tries really, really hard not to pop a boner.

‘And I have no qualms about you posing naked for me,’ Grantaire responds cheekily, hoping it’s not too obvious that all his blood is migrating south. As much as he loves having Enjolras’ face right there to stare at, he also needs Enjolras to leave before he embarrasses himself.

Enjolras, predictably, huffs and rolls his eyes. ‘Goodbye, Grantaire. It has been not unpleasant.’

‘It’s fine to say you had fun showing off your body carved out of marble, you know!’ Grantaire calls after Enjolras’ retreating back, unable to help himself. Story of his life right there.

Enjolras makes a shockingly rude gesture as he disappears down the stairs.

Grantaire laughs and then smacks his forehead with his sketchpad. ‘Fuck, I’m in so much trouble,’ he mumbles around his smile.

He really is.

**Author's Note:**

> Feedback is always lovely, appreciated, wanted, etc
> 
> [ THIS](http://clarespace.tumblr.com/) is my tumblr where I repeatedly cry and swear over dead revolutionaries (not to mention young mutants in love and pain, 5 idiots in a boyband, space husbands, and a time-travelling alien doctor). Feel free to cry with me.


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